


coming out of [the closet] and I've been doing just fine

by BlueGirl22



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Discovery, jon gets two chapters as a treat and also because he has two entire things to realize, some internalized ace/homo/biphobia but dw it's all dealt w/ quickly, well biromantic but that isn't a tag so shrug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueGirl22/pseuds/BlueGirl22
Summary: A look at how Jon, Martin, Tim, Melanie, and Georgie come to terms with their sexualities at different points in their lives.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 129





	1. Jon, pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> cw: this chapter gets a little hot and heavy at one point but nothing actually happens, and also jon has a bit of a panic attack

It’s a Wednesday in 2005. 

Jon walks Georgie back to her dorm on the evening of their sixth date. Just as they come into the pool of light being shed by the streetlamp outside the main entrance, she pauses and turns to face him.

“I’ve _really_ liked spending time with you.”

He blinks, taken slightly off guard. “Thank you. I’ve liked spending time with _you_.”

She smiles. “I’m glad.” Slowly, making sure he sees her every movement, she reaches up to him, puts her right hand on his cheek, and gradually brings her face to his. When he catches what she’s doing, he leans in closer, and they stand, locked in a sweet, peaceful kiss for several moments.

He straightens up his posture and pulls away. “I liked doing that, too,” he breathes with a chuckle.

Georgie’s mouth quirks up in a playful smile. “Would you like to come up with me?” 

“Oh, no-” he checks his watch- “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be-”

“No, really. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get to sleep soon, and I’ve got a class in the morning.”

Georgie’s about to clarify what she means, but Jon has already started to walk away. With a sigh, she takes out her keys and heads inside.

* * *

It’s a Monday in 2006.

Jon and Georgie sit at an outdoor cafe table, their highlighted sheets of study notes temporarily forgotten on the tabletop before them. Jon lights a cigarette, and Georgie’s eyes trail over his exposed arm as he puts the lighter back in his pocket.

“Jon,” she speaks up.

He turns to look at her. “Mm hmm?” 

“My roommate’s going home for the May Day long weekend.”

“Oh.” He takes the cigarette out of his mouth to talk more clearly. “That should be nice for her.”

“I’ll have our room all to myself for three days.” Pause. “I- _we_ could do anything.”

“I bet you’ll like the peace and quiet.”

“I expect so.” She puts her elbows on the table and leans in closer. “Do you have any ideas for what I could do?”

There’s a silence as Jon gives that some thought. “No clue.”

Georgie bites her lip. “Right.”

* * *

It’s a Saturday in 2006.

Georgie has her head on Jon’s chest as the credits roll on a DVD of _Notting Hill_ , the couple having spent the last two hours rather pleasantly making fun of its every scene. Stretched out on her bed with her ear against his rib cage, she can hear the beat of his heart through his shirt material. She gives something a second of thought, then picks up the remote and pauses the scroll of names on the screen.

“Jon,” she says, looking into his face, trying her best at a coy smile, “We’re laying in my bed.”

He looks a measure perplexed. “Yes, we are.”

“And my roommate’s away.”

“Yes, she is.”

Georgie leaves a gap in her side of the conversation, giving him a chance to figure it out before she has to be a bit more blunt.

“Georgie?”

She lets out a sigh and deflates. “Jon, I’m offering to sleep with you.”

His eyes widen. “Oh. You, you want to?”

She lifts herself up and spends a few seconds pressing a kiss to his lips. “I do, yes.”

“Alright, um. Okay then.”

* * *

_Any second now, this will start feeling better any second now,_ Jon repeats to himself. He’s usually perfectly happy with kissing, but somehow knowing it’s only a precursor to a main event this time makes him acutely aware of how strange having his lips licked by someone else actually is. One of the first things Georgie did was unbutton and take off her blouse, and now, knees straddling his legs, she slips her hands under his shirt and tugs it over his head.

He trembles a little as he feels her skin running along his. _That must be a good sign, excitement and all._

Hearing her every breath, she leans in and starts kissing him again. _Kissing, I can do kissing, this is fine._ She takes hold of one of his hands and places it on her ribs, just below the fabric of her bra. Jon feels like his fingers are full of lead.

She pulls back for a second and looks in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Yep, mm hmm,” he lies. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just, you don’t seem… nothing, never mind. If you say you’re fine, then-” she goes back in and kisses under his jaw this time. Jon’s heart is racing, but it doesn’t feel like happy anticipation.

She hikes up her skirt, Jon feels her toying with his belt buckle, and suddenly the low and steady unease crystallizes into a sharp shard of panic, his blood turning to ice and coming to a standstill in his veins. “No, actually, um-” reflexively, he puts his hands on Georgie’s shoulders and pushes her back- “Sorry, sorry, can we stop for a second?” He takes his hands back and puts them over his face.

She slings her leg back over, now kneeling beside him instead of straddling. “Jon, you’re shaking.”

“I know, I know, sorry, I just-” he crosses his arms over his chest and rubs his shoulders- “I’m fine, I just need a minute.”

“Darling, _what’s wrong?_ ”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re hyperventilating.”

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine, I just don’t feel-.”

“I think you’re having a panic attack.”

“No. Maybe? I don’t think so.”

“Okay…” She looks around for something that might help, and pulls up a quilt from the bed and wraps it around his bare shoulders. “Does this feel better?”

“A bit? I don’t know. I just- can I have a second of quiet?”

“Sure, sure.”

Jon buries his face in the quilt, and they're still for a minute or two. Georgie watches the tension slowly ebb out of his frame as they sit half-naked on her bed.

“Jon?”

“Yep, I’m, I’m feeling better now.”

“Can you tell me what’s wrong? Did I do something?”

Jon picks up his head to look at her. “No, no I don’t think so. I just- can we not, um, do this right now, please? I’d like to stop.”

Georgie stares. “Of course, Jon, I’m not gonna try and have sex with you after you’ve just had a panic attack.” She leans down to the floor and picks up their discarded tops. “Did you want to stop the whole time?”

His head nods up and down. “Yes, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, but you should’ve just said. I don’t want to make you do something you don’t want to.”

“Well, I thought I’d stop wanting to stop, so I didn’t say anything and then I just… panicked, I guess.”

“Just, let me know next time something’s making you that uncomfortable, okay?” Quietly, they redress themselves. “Do you want to do anything else?”

“No, I think I just want to go home, sorry.”

Georgie feels a twinge of something between guilt, sympathy, and disappointment. “Are you alright to get there yourself? I can walk with you.”

Jon smooths out his shirt and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “No, I’m alright, I’d like to be on my own for a bit.” He picks up his jacket from over the back of a chair.

“Look, Jon, I’m sorry for freaking you out, I didn’t mean-”

“No, I know, it’s just a me thing." He pulls his jacket on, and heads out the door. “I’ll, um, call you later, or, something.”

* * *

The dark gloom of Jon’s dorm room is lit only by the laptop screen staring back at him. By the time he’d taken a walk, gotten a tea at a near cafe, and made his way back to his room, his roommate was already asleep, so Jon decided to be courteous and keep the lights and sound to a low level.

During his walk, Jon had gone through his mind's back catalog and, bit by bit, come to the troubling realization that he’d _never_ felt _any_ sort of sexual desire. Not _once_. Whenever he’d had cause to think about the subject before, he’d always assumed that it was just because he was young and was taking his development a bit more slowly than his peers, but he’s nineteen now. If there were ever a time he really should’ve been feeling that sort of interest, it would have been an hour ago when his lovely and objectively very pretty girlfriend was sat on his lap and taking her clothes off. And all he had felt was acute, intense discomfort.

He _knows_ he likes Georgie, so why was he so distressed? As he’d sipped his tea in the cafe, a memory of a biology class and the knowledge that low sex drive is a symptom of any number of hormone disorders surfaced in his mind, and that had made him very nervous indeed. The idea didn't feel right, didn't sit right in the pit of his stomach, but his short list of explanations only had one item on it, so unless he could find something else… That was the particular thought that had spurred him to scurry home and glare into the glow of his open browser.

He doesn’t like this sudden feeling of insecurity; self-reflection and doubt is not usually his area. His fingers hover over the keys. Maybe, if he doesn’t write it out, it’ll stay inside his head and it won’t be real.

He grits his teeth.

Into the search window, he types, “I don’t want to have sex.”

The page of results brings up a lot of blog posts and magazine articles about people who are usually perfectly happy to have sex but feel awkward occasionally turning down long term partners. That’s not what Jon’s looking for, so he alters his phrasing.

“I’ve never wanted to have sex.”

The first result is a letter to an agony aunt by a college student in a happy, long-term relationship, but who's nervous because she doesn't want to have sex and can't see that changing anytime in the future. _This sounds more like it._ He quickly scans the letter and response, and two things pop out to him: the word “asexuality,” and a link to a page called the Asexual Visibility and Education Network, aka AVEN. 

He follows the link, and reads the home page. Then he reads the “About Asexuality - Overview” section. Then he reads the “General FAQ.” Then the “Relationships FAQ.” Each paragraph and answered question slows the mad anxious throb of his pulse. This sounds like him. This is a real thing. This isn't a _personality flaw_ , he’s not _sick_ , he’s not _repressed-_ or, well, not any more repressed than he would expect.

Looking at the time, he realizes he ought to get back to Georgie, and tenses up again. This seems like something she ought to know, and the website says much the same. Should he call her? No, terrible idea. Text? No, this is too wordy to condense. He opens up a Word document and begins drafting an email. Several minutes of pained typing later, he’s selected the draft that least makes him want to set his clothes on fire. 

> Dear Georgie,
> 
> Sorry for running away from you like that, I was feeling awfully mixed up and needed to clear my head, which I have now. So, a few things:
> 
> One- I mean it, you didn’t do anything wrong.
> 
> Two- I really like you, and please keep that in mind when I say
> 
> Three- I don’t think I’m going to be able to try sex again, with you or with anyone else. Again, it’s not because I don’t like you or I don’t like women or anything, I just don’t think I’m wired like that.
> 
> Four- I understand if you want to stop seeing me, and I won’t make a fuss if you do.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Jon.

His fingertip is damp as he clicks “send,” and he considers refreshing the page over and over until either he passes out or gets a reply. Instead, he tares himself away from the screen and gets ready to go to sleep.

Just as he’s prepared to lay in bed and let the worry keep him up long into the night, his little Nokia mobile buzzes and he feels a spike of combined dread and relief. In slow motion, he opens the text messages. From Georgie, as he’s assumed.

> i don’t wanna break up w/ u, u absolute sausage. that’s all fine. see u tmrw <3

A smile spreads across Jon’s face as he puts the phone down on his nightstand. _Crisis averted._

He’ll be able to sleep easily now.


	2. Jon, pt. 2

At first, it’s easy to miss and/or ignore the flickers of warmth Jon feels around Martin.

He sits there watching for twenty minutes as Martin spills his guts about what must have been the worst two weeks of his life, and halfway through, Jon starts planning what he can do to make him feel safe and secure, plotting out what he’ll have to do on late nights when the sealed room is occupied. But that sort of sympathy is normal, and certainly to be expected.

He’s locked in the sealed room with Martin in what feels like is going to be their last hour alive, and confessions tumble out of his mouth like a daredevil child with a mattress down a staircase. But he thinks he’s about to die, and the tape recorder’s running, so that’s surely the main reason. Plus, he’s sure he’d bond with _anyone_ a little bit after being stuck with them in a situation like that.

He finds out that Martin only lied _on his CV,_ and the relief that floods through his body is certainly just that of ticking a suspect off a list. 

Jon starts coming down off his semi-manic paranoid episode, and the first time Martin brings him a cup of tea, he realizes that all the checking in and conversation starters have just been because of Martin’s own kindness. But so what? Yes, that was good of him, and Jon feels a standard measure of appreciation and thankfulness, but the warmth spreading in his chest is absolutely just down to the hot tea.

Yes, he begins to feel protective of Martin, trying to keep him out of harm’s way and not letting him know anything that could get him into trouble, but really that’s just basic human decency. Nevermind that he isn’t so cautious with anyone else at the Institute.

The first lilt of feeling he categorically _can’t_ pass over comes when Helen brings him back after his stay with Orsinov. Seeing Martin dissolve into guilty apologies over not helping pulls at him in a way he hasn’t felt before. He wants to wrap the man up in his arms and hold him until Martin can feel the warmth seeping out from Jon’s glowing heart. He wants to whisper sweet assurances until Martin knows to never doubt himself again. He wants to kiss his face until Martin’s nervous twisted expression melts into a mellow smile. 

He does none of that.

He carries on the conversation until it’s done, goes back to his office, and puts his head on his desk. He is _not_ going to think about that, no siree. If he is… feeling… something for Martin- which he can’t be certain he _is_ , he’s never felt anything like that for a man before- he’ll pay it no mind. There’s no way Martin would ever reciprocate at this point, the world is getting more chaotic and irregular by the day, involving someone into his life would surely put them in danger, he’s still technically Martin’s _boss_ , and, and… and everything else.

He resigns himself to trying to smother his heart flutters, and gets back into the swing of world-saving.

The next time he has to think about it, it’s when he’s back from America and listening through the statements everyone had been recording. It’s not unusual for there to be a bit of conversation either end of a tape, and he usually tunes out during them to make some notes, but he can’t help listening through the end of the recording of Jan Kilbride’s statement.

> - _That boy needs to relax._
> 
> _-Or at_ least _find someone else to fuss over._
> 
> _-Yeah, he’s got it_ bad.

The conversation rolls on, and despite a momentary bit of shock at hearing his coworkers discussing his lack of sex life for a second, he sits there in a bright, peachy haze. Martin likes him. Martin likes _him._

This is an _entirely_ inappropriate reaction to be having over a conversation not meant for him about a coworker as they’re all trying to stop the apocalypse but-

Martin likes him!

And knowing that makes him feel really, _really_ good.

Which means he must like Martin. Properly like him, romantically and all. He puts his head down on his folded arms. This is so completely not the time for analyzing his feelings like this, but it looks like he has no choice.

_Okay,_ he thinks to himself. _This is fine. This is normal. It’s well documented that coworkers will sometimes develop attraction for one another after getting through stressful situations, and God knows we’ve had enough of those. I won’t do or say anything untoward, and I’m sure he won’t, either._

He straightens himself up in his chair. That’s decided then. He likes Martin, Martin likes him, nothing will happen, and that is fine. It’s all fine. He has no need to get himself worked up like a teenager over something so trivial.

He’s about to put in the next tape (the label denotes that Martin read it and he feels a reluctant throb of fondness) when a thought comes to him. _I suppose this means I like men now. Or probably that I have forever and just didn’t notice._ He blinks hard a few times. He’s almost thirty and he’s just figuring this out _now?_ Christ that’s annoying. 

_Do I- do I tell people? Is that what’s done?_ He told Georgie last time he had a realization sort of like this, but thinks it would be a bit too odd to text his ex girlfriend/ex flatmate “hullo love I think I’m bi now” at 9:48 p.m. on a Tuesday. He vaguely remembers a little pink/purple/blue flag that Tim used to keep on his desk before everything touched by worms had to be incinerated, but _that_ conversation isn’t going to be happening for reasons innumerable.

_Best to just get back to work, probably,_ he thinks, switching out tapes. _I’ll tell people if it ever comes up._


	3. Martin

Thirteen-year-old Martin Blackwood sits quietly at his desk as he leafs through the pages of his health textbook. Well, not _his_ health textbook, _a_ health textbook. His study hall takes place in the health room, and not having anything to do, he picked up a book from the shelf and decided to give it a bit of a read.

It’s full of cartoon drawings of birds and bees and internal organs with smiley faces on them. He _is_ picking up bits of previously unknown information every few pages, but the toll the illustrations are taking on him is great. Could no one have done a better job? He’s never been a violent person, but the dimples on that flower make him want to punch it.

He flips back to the beginning and looks over the first chapter. It details the physical specifics of sexual attraction and arousal, and he suddenly becomes very aware that he’s reading this in a classroom, covertly turning to make sure no one is looking at him. No one is, so he goes back to the page.

The descriptions all say basically what he’d think, but the last page of the chapter throws in something a little bit different. A section of two paragraphs is set off the the left of the page next to a drawing of two interlocking Venus signs and two interlocking Mars signs, under the heading of “Homosexuality.” At first, he thinks, _Oh, neat_. Then mulls it over for a second, and changes his mind. Martin doesn’t consider himself wise in the ways of social issues, but it feels wrong that two paragraphs is all gay people get in this entire textbook. Almost like a personal insult.

_Hmm. Wait a moment,_ he thinks to himself. He’s about to pursue that train of thought when-

The bell rings, and he quickly snaps the book shut and pushes it back on to the shelf. No time to ponder that at the moment, he has questions about _Oliver Twist_ he needs to pretend to have understood.

* * *

Martin is aware that not many boys in his year spend their free afternoons curled up in a nook in their houses with a volume of Shakespeare’s complete sonnets, but it will continue ot be what he does. He's been teased about, well, most everything about him on-and-off since school began, but he never let it poison his free time and take away what he loves doing. He lets himself feel a measure of superiority every time he recalls this fact, allowing himself the indulgence because he knows it’ll never reach anywhere outside his head.

He never allows himself to start by rereading his favorite sonnet, instead delaying the payoff by jumping around and reading some of the more obscure verses, though none make him quite so happy as his favorite. He starts reading. 82, 150, 7, 34, etc. After half an hour of pushing it off, he lets the book fall open to the page it always does.

Sonnet 116. _Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments…_

Martin’s liked it ever since he was little, even when he couldn’t really tell what the lines meant. He likes the way the words sound coming off his tongue, the way the hard “K” sounds click like nails drumming on marble. “K” sounds are good, he wishes there were more in his name.

His lips mouth the syllables for a few minutes, and he lifts his eyes from the page. It’s committed to memory by now, but he still thinks the ritual of reading from an actual book is better than just sitting around and thinking about a poem.

Martin opens to the table of contents, idly looking at the list of first lines in place of titles. His eyes reach the end of the listings, and he realizes with a start that there are some appendices of essays and analysis at the end that he’s never noticed. He quickly flips to the back and gets busy reading this shiny new material; there’s a good bit to get through. The room is quiet as takes in the text.

“Oh,” says Martin, quietly. The first appendix is an analysis of the collection as a whole, unified narrative, from one speaker to two subjects, and after a few paragraphs he came to see that the author was assuming the reader would know the first 126 were addressed to a man. Martin feels himself smiling. That would include _his_ sonnet, too! The knowledge feels exciting, settling in his mind. William Shakespeare, maybe the most famous writer in the English language, liked men! How cool is that?

_Hmm. Wait a moment._ He sits up in the window seat in his room, also remembering again the idea that had presented itself to him in school the other day. He really _is_ getting rather happy about this. He’s not displeased about that, but a concept of _why_ that might be is starting to take root. He sets the book down beside him and stares out the window. Time to do a bit of self reflection.

* * *

The gloom of Martin’s bedroom is pushed back only by the little lamp on his nightstand. He leans into the stale yellow glow, clutching his pencil and diary. He’s not very good at making regular entries, and when he does they’re long and rambly, but he needs to get something out. Make a thought exist somewhere other than his own head.

_Just write it, come on._

He hears a sound outside his door and startles. He knows it’s probably nothing, but he’s suddenly consumed with fear that his mother will barge in, grab the pencil from his hand, and know what he’s doing before he’s even done it. Then his mind moves onto worrying that she’ll read his journal once he’s finished this entry. It’s all ridiculous, she’s never done anything like that, and he has no reason to believe she’d react particularly badly to what he’s doing but… the thought of her knowing makes him nervous, anyway. He tries to stay out of her mind as much as he can, and this would throw up a big attention flag.

_Write it._

He’s not even nervous for any personal reasons. He doesn’t feel guilty, or wrong. He’s a little bit nervous about how this may make his life pan out, but otherwise he thinks this is fine.

_Just. Write. It._

He’s done the thinking. He’s tried picturing his future, near and far. Picnic dates and sharing secrets and making meals and formal events and loving declarations. The answer has gone from out-of-focus and nebulous to crystal clear. All it’ll take to solidify is a little bit of graphite.

_Now._

He readjusts his grip on the pencil, shakily beginning to write.

> Dear Diary,
> 
> So, I’ve been having a bit of a think this week. And, I know I’m young, and I know it’s honestly not going to make a difference for me right now but

_You can write it. You_ can.

> I think I’m gay.

His heart beat surges all at once and then slows down as he reads the passage over a few times, the slopes of his handwriting dedicating themselves to memory without him even trying.

> There. That feels really good to have written, actually. I don’t really want to date anyone right now, but when I do, I’ll want to date boys. I think that’ll be nice.

Just those sentences makes for an awfully short diary entry. He starts writing again.

> I don’t know what I’m going to do with knowing this now, though. I don’t really want to tell Mum. I have some friends, but, I don’t know, I think it would be weird to tell them. It’s like I’m friends enough with them, but I don’t think they’re friends enough with me that they’d do the same if they had something to tell. I like the idea of sewing patches onto my clothes, but I don’t have any patches, I’m not very good at sewing, and everyone I’ve seen with them have been adults. I don’t know. I suppose I can just know this not have to do anything further. I’ll figure it out.

There. That’s clear enough. Again, it feels better to have put the words somewhere outside his head. A person would be even better, but he thinks this is as good as he’s going to get for now. He beats back the looming feeling of loneliness that’s started to creep in and puts the journal and pencil down on the nightstand. He _likes_ this realization, it’s a _good_ one, and he will _not_ let it be tempered with gloom. He turns out the light, laying back on his pillow. 

As his mind starts to power down in preparation for sleep, a little smile graces his face. This _is_ a good thing. He likes this. He’s determined to feel good about it.

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter up sometime this week, happy quaran-time! (also I'm on tumblr @bisexual-evanhansen hehehe)


End file.
